


Flay My Soul

by amyfortuna



Series: 2016 Season of Kink (Card 1) [22]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Oaths & Vows, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Ñolofinwë devises a suitable punishment for Fëanáro abandoning him in Araman.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fulfils my Season of Kink square for punishment.

"Fëanáro," he found himself breathing like a prayer as he approached, crossing the wide space between their two camps, drawn up like battle lines to the north and south of Lake Mithrim. 

His brother waited there on the edge of the Fëanorian camp, alone. He was wearing armour that shone in the wavering light of the new Sun, and by his side was a sword Ñolofinwë knew all too well - the same sword that had come within a hair's breadth of pressing too deeply against his throat and letting the vital life spill. 

Here and now, all the anger that had compelled him across the Ice had grown faint, leaving an emptiness behind it, and a dim, almost childish, longing to be held in strong arms, to be comforted, kissed, and petted, was all that lingered. The form of his brother, standing tall and whole at the edge of the camp, was intimately familiar, and Ñolofinwë shivered with longing and remembrance, of long-gone happier days. 

Long ago, before they ever thought of strife between them, Ñolofinwë had curled up against Fëanáro, in a quiet, unguarded moment, when they two were alone in one of the palace's many wide rooms, resting after a long evening of greeting boring guests at an event to celebrate the birth of Arafinwë. Ñolofinwë had consumed glass after glass of wine at the affair, trying to keep up with Fëanáro, who always seemed to drink without ever being affected by it. 

But there alone together on that couch, Fëanáro had turned slightly, leaning against Ñolofinwë just as much as Ñolofinwë leant on him, and put his arms around him, sighing into his hair, wearily. His breath smelt faintly of the sweet wine they had been consuming. They said nothing, the silence too sweet to break, a sharp and beautiful tension lingering between them, until at last Fëanáro bent and kissed him. 

Ñolofinwë never knew who had deepened the kiss first; he only knew that in a moment, the kiss transformed from something brotherly - as if that was not rare and sweet enough itself! - to something far more intense, more vital. His nerves sang and his heart hammered within him. He found that he was clinging to Fëanáro, clutching at him wildly, fingers clenched in the fine tunic he wore. The kiss seemed to go on for days, years even; his blood was singing in his veins, and he was desperately hard underneath his clothes, by the time it stopped. 

Fëanáro's hands stroked his shoulders and back, and one hand pressed against the nape of his neck, and then Fëanáro leaned in again and kissed his throat, in the exact place where many years later he would press a blade. "My Ñolo," he whispered, and the feel of his breath against Ñolofinwë's throat sent shivers down his spine, "Do you want this?"

There was only one answer to be made. "Yes, Fëanáro," he said, and could detect the tremor in his own voice, though Fëanáro said nothing of it. Fëanáro drew away a little, and took Ñolofinwë's hand in his own. 

"Come with me, then," he said, and Ñolofinwë obeyed without further thought. They stood together, and Fëanáro led Ñolofinwë swiftly through the palace by all the quietest ways, until they reached his own bedroom - now little-used since his apprenticeship with Mahtan had begun. 

There Fëanáro had opened up a whole new world of delight and pleasure to him, one that no memory of sorrow or loss could erase. And though he hated Fëanáro now as much as he loved him, the hate did not overwhelm the love, but existed alongside it, intermingled with it. The two emotions drove him forward, head up, until he could meet Fëanáro's eyes. 

Ñolofinwë could have struck Fëanáro. It would have been the easier path to take, in some ways. Could pain answer for all those that lay dead under the Ice, fallen by the wayside, fallen in battle? Could any amount of pain punish Fëanáro thoroughly for the loss of Arakáno? For the death of Elenwë? 

Physical pain was merely a gesture in the face of so much suffering. Instead, Ñolofinwë went to his knees, a few feet from where Fëanáro stood, watching him with puzzled eyes. 

"You led, and I followed, as I vowed," he said. "But, brother, you made the road hard indeed." His voice caught on a sob, and he bent his head, tears falling openly from his eyes to the sandy shore of the lakeside. "Once, long ago, you named me yours, and so I have ever been. I would not be forsworn, if it was Angband itself that you led me to, with no hope of aid." 

A slight jingle of metal sounded above him, and Fëanáro knelt down beside him, lifting his chin and drawing him into a kiss, long and sweet and not at all brotherly. "You flay my very soul raw," Fëanáro whispered against his lips. "Your words cause more pain than the whips of Balrogs, and your tears are salt in every wound. Why do I listen to you? Why can you hurt me like no one else ever has?"

Ñolofinwë met his eyes, but said nothing, letting his face, tearstained and grief-stricken, speak for him. After a moment, when Fëanáro bent to gently kiss away the tears that still fell from his eyes, he knew that his punishment was complete.


End file.
